


Akaashi Keiji's Hands are Always Cold

by Taryo88



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Universe, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Time Skip, Strangers to Lovers, because he deserves it, but basically it's just me manifesting love and friendship for Akaashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28316406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taryo88/pseuds/Taryo88
Summary: He is sure he sounds too rushed and breathless when he says, “Thank you, Miya-san,” but he doesn’t have the capacity to worry about it at the moment. Sounds of more cheers from the stadium are still taking up a majority of his mind, urging him to go faster. He turns quickly on his heel, clenches his fist tighter around the handle of his food bag, and speeds away, tuning his mind once again to the game and only the game. He hears Bokuto’s name from the announcers once more and urges his feet faster. Every hasty step further from the Onigiri Miya stand feels like an accusation. But no, Keiji assures himself, he is not running away, he is just running really, really late.-------In which Akaashi has a bit of a hectic day and keeps running into a certain twin in the middle of it.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 22
Kudos: 185





	Akaashi Keiji's Hands are Always Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be like 3k at most, but they kept demanding more scenes together before they would even consider crushing on one another. I think OsaAka is just built for multi-chapter, long-form slow burn, but I, unfortunately, am not built to write multi-chapter, long-form slow burn, so please take whatever this one-shot 12k monstrosity is instead. <3

Akaashi Keiji’s hands are always cold.

It’s a fact that he’s been aware of for as long as he could remember, but not one he’d ever tried to rectify. It just never bothered him that much, so he didn’t see the point. Sure, as a setter he did everything he could to take care of his hands - filing his nails when they got long, taping his fingers if he stubbed them, putting on lotion when the winter air started to make the skin crack. But the daily chill that settled in his palms and radiated out the backs of his hands didn’t hinder his motion or get in the way of his playing, so there was no reason to unnecessarily fret over it. (He fretted unnecessarily about other things enough as it was.) In fact, he hardly ever noticed his hands at all. 

The only time when the abnormal temperature of his hands was ever on the forefront of his mind was when he faced the contrast of someone else's.

“Waaahhh, Akaaaashi, your hands are so cold!!” 

Bokuto snatched Keiji’s hands away from the ball Keiji had been handing him and clutched them tight to his broad chest. “How do you live like this? Does it not bother you??”

Keiji merely shrugged at his captain as the taller boy started huffing short breaths over his fingers, presumably in an attempt to warm them up. “Not particularly.”

“What? How can it not, they’re like ice! I’d never be able to think about anything else if my hands felt like this, Akaashi!”

As easily distracted as Bokuto already was, Keiji figured that was pretty accurate, actually. In response, Keiji merely gave Bokuto a small smile and carefully extracted his hands from his friend’s sweaty palms so that he could retrieve the dropped volleyball from the gym’s floor. “Well, don’t let them distract you now, Bokuto-san, we still have to finish cleaning the gym so we can go home.”

“Oh, right!” was the only thing Akaashi got in response before Bokuto was off again, pushing a cart of volleyballs at unsafe speeds towards the closet. 

The absence of the momentary shared heat left Keiji’s hands feeling more chilled than usual. He shook off the feeling as quickly as possible, doing his best to place all thoughts of his hands on the backmost shelf in his mind to collect dust. It worked well, and even Bokuto seemed to have forgotten about them entirely until a few weeks later when, on the train to Fukurodani, it was brought up again. 

“Yo, Akaashi!” Konoha waved Keiji over when he stepped into their usual train car. It was early morning, before volleyball practice, but the car still held a decent number of people heading to work. Even through the standing groups of salary workers, it was easy to spot Konoha, Sarukui, and Bokuto in their usual corner of the train car. Keiji nodded back at Konoha and settled into the seat his upperclassmen had saved for him next to Bokuto. 

Keiji didn’t particularly care for mornings, but he didn’t hate them. He might prefer to sleep to a more reasonable hour like nine or ten, but if he had to get up earlier for class or for practice, he would do so without complaint. Not to mention, once he was awake, he was awake for good. There would be no coaxing his body back to sleep, so he never really struggled to get to practice on time. 

Bokuto did not operate the same way. Bokuto, whose brain took its sweet time to boot up every morning, and who could easily be lulled back into a deep sleep by the constant motion of the train car, was not always well-suited for mornings. This particular morning was no exception. When Keiji sat down next to him, Bokuto was nodding off violently, head almost slamming into Sarukui’s shoulder each time before he jerked himself dramatically awake. Keiji was carefully weighing the pros and cons of shaking him awake and attempting to keep up a conversation until they got to campus when a particularly rapid jerk of Bokuto’s knocked the boy’s backpack right off his own lap. 

“Wha-?” Bokuto flinched spectacularly at the surprise of hearing his backpack fall, spiked hair even more wild than usual and eyes blown wide. The sight immediately sparked laughter from both Sarukui and Konoha, and even Keiji snorted at Bokuto’s frantic look. 

Bokuto whined low in his throat about being made fun of this early in the morning, completely disregarding his belongings, so Keiji took it upon himself to gather them. 

When he’s handing them all back to Bokuto, the topic of his hands is picked up again.

“‘Kaashi!” Bokuto whined, plucking at Keiji’s slender fingers and rubbing his thumbs over the slightly blue nail beds. “It’s two degrees outside! Your hands are already so cold, you need gloves or you’ll get frostbite!”

“I really don’t think I’m going to get fro-”

“Frostbite? Why would Akaashi get frostbite?” Konoha’s head peaked over from around Sarukui to pick up on the conversation. “It’s not any colder than usual outside, is it?”

“No,” Bokuto said with a pout, “but his hands are so cold all the time. Here, feel!”

Before Keiji could protest, Bokuto was yanking his arm towards Konoha with all the strength of a top five ace. Keiji just barely managed to keep from banging his head on Bokuto’s shoulder by catching himself on Bokuto’s backpack with his free hand. Bokuto didn’t even spare a second glance towards Keiji, all of his attention on Konoha, who had reacted to the sudden motion with a surprisingly agile dodge that protected him from the icicles that were Keiji’s fingers. 

Bokuto’s grip on Keiji’s wrist never let up as he chased after Konoha, the offending digits held out like weapons. Konoha simply ducked and doged, always one second ahead of their captain. It wasn’t until he hid behind Sarukui that Bokuto seemed to change tactics. Sarukui, who had been watching the duel with a softly amused expression, did not see Bokuto coming at all. 

When Keiji’s fingers pressed firmly into the side of Sarukui’s neck underneath his scarf, Keiji was surprised at how frozen his fingers felt in contrast to the virtual sun that was the skin of Sarukui’s throat. Keiji’s shock came out in the form of a small huff of breath. Sarukui’s shock upon feeling Keiji’s fingers, on the other hand, presented itself to the entire train car as the boy nearly shrieked in surprise at the touch. Even as unamused as Keiji was with his current predicament, being manhandled with no care on the morning train, he had to admit the reaction was almost worth it. That is, until he was manhandled even more.

“Jesus, Akaashi, how can your hands be this cold? They’ve been in your pockets all morning!” 

Keiji’s shoulder twinged a second time as Sarukui, a young, strong volleyball player himself, ripped Keiji’s hand even further away from his body in order to steal it from Bokuto.

“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time!” Bokuto was speaking way too loudly for public transit. Keiji sent a small, warning glare his way, but he refused to look at it. His eyes were too preoccupied watching Sarukui hold Keiji’s hand between two gloved palms, warming it. 

“It can’t be that bad,” was all the warning Keiji got before Konoha reached across Sarukui to grab Keiji’s other hand. The hand that was currently the only thing holding him upright.

“Oof.” 

Keiji never thought he’d be happy that Bokuto never brought his textbooks or enough pencils to class, but when he landed hard across the other boy’s backpack, he found he was very glad to not be stabbed in the chest. He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do now that he was all but sprawled across both Bokuto and Sarukui’s laps, being completely ignored in favor of freaking out over the temperature of his fingers. 

“Fuck, Akaashi, how do you _live_ like this?” Konoha asked, fingers wrapping around Keiji’s and imbuing them with heat. He glanced down at Keiji and finally seemed to notice the position he was essentially being hostage in, frowning uselessly up at his rowdy teammates. 

“May I please have my hands back now, Konoha-san?”

There was a moment of silence. Not a very long moment. Short enough that Keiji could wait patiently through it, listening to the slow turning of gears in his senpais’ heads as they took in his sprawled form and his captured hands in their own. It wasn’t a very long moment, but it broke like shattering glass. 

Konoha quickly released Keiji’s fingers to wave his hands in front of his eyes, intermittently blocking his expression from Keiji’s unimpressed stare, as though attempting to hide from the weight of it. “Ahh, sorry Akaashi.”

For their own part, Sarukui and Bokuto were simply laughing, loudly and with gusto. Konoha’s almost stuttering response only made them double down, and earned them more dirty looks from the other passengers on their train car. Keiji had expected the broken tension to grant him the use of his own appendages back. He tugged lightly at his hand, still within Sarukui’s grip, and was genuinely surprised to find continued resistance.

Sarukui’s fingers were still wrapped around Keiji’s hand, though the hold was much gentler now. Less surprised and possessive, and more like a favor or a gift. He patted the back of Keiji’s hand almost placatingly.

“Well, we can’t let a precious kohai freeze to death, now can we?” He moved so quickly that Keiji was half expecting to be tugged around again, but Sarukui barely budged their connected hands before presenting something so close to Keji’s eyes that it nearly brushed the tip of his nose.

“Wha-”

When he finally recognized what had been presented to him, Sarukui was already halfway through working his own worn glove over Akaashi’s right hand.

“Sarukui-san, I couldn’t possibly take your gloves from you,” Keiji said, attempting to put some of his weight training to good use in order to gently, but firmly, pull his hand away. Sarukui held fast. “If you give me these, then what about your hands?”

“They’ll be fine for one morning, now give me your other hand.”

“Absolutely not,” Keiji shook his head once and tucked his remaining hand to his chest where Sarukui would have to work to take it. “If your hands will be fine for one morning, then mine definitely will be. Besides, my hands are always like this.”

Sarukui just rolled his eyes. “Fine, if you’re gonna use your Bossy-Setter voice on me, then we’ll compromise. You take that one, since you’re already wearing it-” Sarukui continued quickly to cut off Keiji’s protest about that fact, “- and I’ll wear the other one.” Sarukui slipped the left glove onto his hand and then held them both out to Keiji in what was most likely meant to be flourishing jazz hands. In reality, it looked more like he was waving manically at Keiji with mismatched hands. “See, it’s fair.”

Keiji didn’t even have a chance to deny that there was anything fair about Sarukui giving up his own gloves for no reason to someone who didn’t need them in the first place, because there was Bokuto again, grabbing at Keiji’s left hand.

“Ah, I’ll share with Akaashi too!” He said excitedly, patting down his own pockets for his gloves. Unlike Sarukui’s unnervingly smooth presentation, Bokuto’s search for his gloves jostled Keiji quite a bit through the movement of their connected hands. Keiji could hear small snickers from Konoha’s direction at how he was being tugged on, the older boy even sent a small “ _Ganbatte”_ his direction that Keiji rolled his eyes at. 

“Bokuto-san.” Keiji admonished when the treatment went on way longer than it should take to find one’s only pair of gloves that they presumably were wearing before settling into the train car not even fifteen minutes prior.

“I swear I have them Akaashi! I remember grabbing them off the counter before I left! Oh. But then I had to go back inside for my homework and they were making it hard to find my key in my backpack so I took them off...But I know I put them back on when I left again! Well, but then you texted me to remind me that I borrowed Yukippe’s notes again so I ran back to get those too...and maybe…….after that……….”

With each passing word, Bokuto’s shoulders climbed a little bit higher towards his ears.

Keiji sighed, “Did you leave your gloves at home Bokuto-san.” 

Like a string was cut, Bokuto’s shoulders immediately drooped so dramatically he was almost dragging against the floor of the train car. 

Konoha and Sarukui’s laughter could probably be heard all the way in the engineer’s car. When they finally calmed down enough to pick the conversation back up, Bokuto had somehow managed to sink even lower in his seat, head now thrown back against the window. Konoha reached over and patted Bokuto on his knee. 

“There, there, buddy, maybe next time. But for now-” Konoha’s fingers dug between Keiji’s palm and where Bokuto’s fingers were still clasping it and yanked. Akaashi once again found himself sprawled across two teammates as his upperclassman roughly pulled his much newer, dark grey glove over Keiji’s left hand, somehow managing to get three of his fingers into one slot in his haste before declaring, “I’ll be sharing with Akaashi!”

Just as fast as he was tugged forward, Keiji was released, at long last, to sit firmly in his own personal space again. Without having to look up at his teammates at such a sharp angle, Keiji was able to see the frustrated way Bokuto bared his teeth at Konoha’s self-satisfied smirk with much better clarity. 

Keiji’s shoulder twinged, and his left hand fingers were being squeezed quite uncomfortably, but as he watched his upperclassmen argue over the cold, and gloves, and him, he couldn’t help but smile. When Washio and Komi joined them a few stops later, they were delighted to be filled in on the antics. They jumped right in with their own arguments as to who should give Keiji their gloves the next day, and Keiji felt warm.

And that’s just the way it went. Every morning, Keiji would have gloves, pre-heated by the hands of his upperclassmen, thrust upon him. They would insist that Keiji keep them on, only accepting them back once they reached the club room. Keiji eventually stopped fighting it. 

He tried, when he realized this was going to be a recurring theme, to simply not accept the gloves, but instead of putting their gloves back on when Keiji refused, they simply stuck the offered accessories in their pockets and announced that no one would be wearing the gloves that day. So, Keiji stopped refusing, because at least if he was wearing them, the gloves wouldn’t be going to waste. He stuck by that reasoning. He wore the gloves because otherwise they would be no use to anybody. But some days he had to admit to himself that there was more to it than just that.

Because somehow, inexplicably, gloves worn by his friends kept his hands warmer than any of his own gloves ever seemed to. A poetic side of Keiji believed that the heat was their care for him, radiating out of their palms and infusing itself inside the threads. It made Keiji feel seen and loved. His friends’ affections were big enough that for a while, Akaashi Keiji’s hands are warm.

It didn’t last. His third years graduated and there were no longer gloves, just a touch too wide for Keiji’s slim fingers, to thaw his hands. 

On his graduation day, Bokuto gifted Keiji with a brand new pair of high-quality gloves. He said that he had saved up for them, and that they would protect Keiji’s hands now that he and the other third years wouldn’t be there to do it for him. Keiji wore them every day the next winter. He loved them, because they reminded him of his closest friends, but try as they might, they could never quite fight off the draft that seemed to blow through his bones. Keiji would slip cold digits into cold gloves every morning, and it simply highlighted the difference. The fabric of his own gloves surrounded his fingers with chilled indifference, and for the first time in his life, Keiji found himself aware of his frigid fingers, his stiffening joints, the slight shade of blue under his nails. For a while it became hard to ignore.

But soon enough, the reminder of warmth faded and he learned to live again with the same cold hands that he’d always had. 

* * *

Akaashi Keiji is running late. 

He’d been meaning to get a new alarm clock for months, but he thought that whatever he had done the last time he’d gotten around to poking at his current one had finally fixed it. He clearly had been wrong. 

So now here he is, attempting to find a casual, non-embarrassing way to run from the train station to the stadium on time to see the beginning of the MSBY Black Jackals vs. Azuma Pharmacy Green Rockets gam. He’d like to say that he’s not _that_ late. He’d really like to. But Udai had called him on the train begging some major art-block emergency that he needed help with ASAP, and between listening to Udai whine about how he needs someone to bounce ideas off of _please, Akaashi-san_ and trying to keep his own voice from disturbing any of the other passengers in the car, Keiji had somehow ended up going three stops past where he was meant to get off.

And now he’s running really late, actually. 

He made an effort to task focus when things started getting out of hand. He made a mental list of all the steps he needed to complete to get to the game. He started with _get off the train_ and _text Udai a time and place to meet and discuss the issue_ , and managed to get himself into a pretty decent momentum through the rest of his list, so by the time he's opening the doors to the gymnasium, all he has left is _show my ticket_ and _find a seat._

_Okay, Keiji, just get into the stadium and find a seat and then you’re done. You haven’t even missed the first serve yet._

Keiji is allowed into the event with no trouble, and now that he’s inside, his hurried pace is easily understood by everyone he passes, though there aren’t many who are still lingering in the hall when the players are starting to walk onto the court. His morning has been horrible, and he’s so close to finally being able to settle down, mental pen centimeters from marking off his final task, when the smell of dozens of food venders’ wares hit his nose at once. His stomach all but vibrates out of his torso with the want of it. It’s then that Keiji reluctantly remembers the melon bread he had set out for breakfast, still sitting snug on his kitchen counter, untouched. And the pre-made convenience store bento he had been planning to purchase on his way out of the train station that he had sprinted straight past. Keiji considers, briefly, pretending he hasn’t noticed, and going straight to the stands anyway. His empty stomach growls violently back in protest. Ah, he supposes he really didn’t eat much in the way of dinner last night either, did he?

It’s now nearing one o’clock, Akaashi Keiji is very late, and giant text reading “GET FOOD” has just been stamped over his nearly completed task list, not to be ignored. 

He really doesn’t have time for this today. He huffs and turns towards the closest food stand, already reaching back to sling his backpack in front of him. He registers the sound of the vendor greeting him as he approaches and nods absently in response. A quick glance at the menu tells him he’s found an onigiri stand, a fact that comes as a pleasant surprise. If he has to waste more time, at least he’ll get some good food out of it, hopefully. There can’t possibly be long left before the first whistle blows at this point. There’s a fidget starting in his hands the more he thinks about it, so he chooses a flavor without deliberating as much as he might usually. The quicker he can get to the game, the better. 

“Three tun-” Keiji is cut off by a loud cheer from the audience. His head whips automatically towards the sound, but as he hears the announcers start to sing praises for the impressive power in Bokuto-senshu’s cross-shot as he scored the opening point of the game, Keiji turns back to his bag and continues digging in a frenzy. “Ah, sorry, three tuna, please.”

He wants to cheer when he finally finds his wallet, but settles instead for a small sigh, pulling out a 1,000 yen bill and reaching forward to set it in the tray on the counter. 

Keiji startles. Instead of reaching the tray with no resistance, his knuckles brush against skin and he jumps. The contact sends unexpected, smouldering sparks across the back of his hand and down his fingers. He takes note of the fist he has just brushed against, holding out his order, then tracks his eyes up the rest of the way. Up strong arms and dark cotton shirt pulled tight over a wide chest, eventually landing on a pair of striking grey eyes. Familiar grey eyes.

They’re eyes he’s seen many times before across a stadium just like this one, sometimes with a volleyball net between them. Sometimes he’s looked at a slightly different pair, color just a tad lighter but otherwise the same, staring at him from the pages of a magazine, or the pixels of a TV screen, or even in the background of video calls with Bokuto. But here, now, he recognizes _these_ eyes.

Miya Osamu.

Keiji does vaguely remember hearing from Bokuto that the other Miya twin had started his own business, but this is his first time being confronted with Onigiri Miya in reality. It’s also his first time being confronted with an adult Miya Osamu, hair dark and broad shoulders all but blocking Keiji’s view of the rest of the booth. All of it takes him by surprise.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Miya says, trading the bag of food for the yen in Keiji’s yielding hand. His voice is deep and his polite smile shows just a sliver of a slightly crooked tooth. If Keiji blushes, it’s certainly out of embarrassment at his own frazzled state. Or maybe because of his run to get here. 

He shakes his head, only partially at the unnecessary apology.

He is sure he sounds too rushed and breathless when he says, “Thank you, Miya-san,” but he doesn’t have the capacity to worry about it at the moment. Sounds of more cheers from the stadium are still taking up a majority of his mind, urging him to go faster. He turns quickly on his heel, clenches his fist tighter around the handle of his food bag, and speeds away, tuning his mind once again to the game and only the game. He hears Bokuto’s name from the announcers once more and urges his feet faster. Every hasty step further from the Onigiri Miya stand feels like an accusation. But no, Keiji assures himself, he is _not_ running away, he is just running really, really late. 

Barnes’s serve throws off the Green Rockets’ receive formation and the ball is almost immediately sent back over to the Jackals. Bokuto gets the receive and sends it in a clean arc to Atsumu who sets to straight to Adriah in a quick set so fast that Keiji is enthralled while taking his seat and once again forgets entirely about his stomach. The Green Rockets manage to get the ball back up, but it’s sloppy. Even with their troubles getting the recieve, their setter is able to step under the ball, and from the stands Keiji is having a hard time determining where he’ll set it to. His phone buzzes while he watches, but he ignores it for the moment, too focused on the game. The Green Rockets set it to their Outside Hitter, and are met by Meian, who is there to stuff it outright and earn the Jackals another point at the start of the set. 

Keiji smiles and turns from where Bokuto is patting his captain sharply on the back to check his phone. He’s startled when he does so to find the bag of onigiri in his hand. Keiji rolls his eyes at himself, he’s been much too on edge today. He quickly checks the notification - only a message from Udai confirming their meeting - before finally allowing himself the chance to settle. He forces his shoulders to relax and grabs an onigiri from the bag.

The rice is warm, almost hot. The feeling of it radiates out into all the spaces where it fits snuggly in Keiji’s palms. It makes his fingertips tingle, reminding him of his brush with Miya’s hand. It’s a pleasant feeling. Keiji removes the plastic wrapping to take his first, large bite, and nearly moans out loud. He’s starving, but the onigiri would be delicious even if he wasn’t. The rice is fresh with the perfect amount of salt. There’s a generous amount of tuna filling, and the seasoning is unlike anything Keiji has ever had before. Savory with just a hint of spice. Keiji feels that bite through his entire being. It dances across his taste buds and makes a home in his stomach, where it seems to expand ever outwards, nourishing his entire being all at once. Heavenly. 

Keiji watches a few more rallies go by as he takes his time chewing his second large bite. He has just gone in for large bite number three when he hears someone calling his name. 

“Akaashi-kun. It’s Akaashi-kun, right?”

Keiji turns towards the voice. If he hadn’t just seen that black shirt and embroidered cap behind the counter of Onigiri Miya, he might not have recognized the man now that they’re not exactly eye to eye. As it stands, Keiji sucks in a confused breath and immediately chokes on the bite of tuna he’s just taken.

“Miya-san,” Keiji says, trying and failing to find a casual way to cough grains of rice out of his throat, “what are you doin-”

“You forgot your change.” Miya says simply. He looks a bit concerned at Keiji’s sputtering, offering a handful of coins in Keiji’s direction only once he’s managed to settle himself with a few large sips from his water bottle. “It took a while before I got the chance to come find you.”

Their hands don’t touch on the exchange this time, but the air moves around Keiji’s hand as Miya pulls away, and it leaves a chill in its wake. Part of Keiji wishes they had touched after all. Interesting.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Miya-san. You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

Miya waves a hand, brushing Keiji off, “No worries, I left someone else in charge for a minute. Besides, you were just my convenient excuse to come see Tsumu from the stands.”

At the prompt, Keiji turns his attention back to the court. Sure enough, Atsumu is in the server’s spot. As the whistle blows, Keiji takes a moment to tuck his change in his wallet, still watching from the corner of his eye, and when Atsumu’s serve blasts wildly out of bounds, Keiji finds himself infinitely grateful that his face is currently tucked into his bag where Miya can’t see him snort a laugh at his twin.

For his part, Miya is laughing outright. “He always gets too cocky.” The statement sounds fond to Keiji’s ears; he can’t help but smile back.

“Does he do that often? I haven’t noticed it when coming to Bokuto-san’s matches.”

Miya glances down at him, hands in his pockets, “Heh, nah, just flubs one every game or two; I can usually tell when they’re coming though.” Keiji notices the two of them getting glances from those further up in the stands and scoots down a bit from the edge of the bench where he’s sitting to make room for Miya. He nods at the spot slightly in invitation as Miya continues speaking, “He used ta get after me when I did the same, but still refuses to admit he does it too.” Miya says. He takes the offered seat as Goshiki Tsutomu from the Green Rockets steps up to serve.

“Hm. Maybe you should film them for a while and make a montage for him.” Keiji suggests, smiling, “He certainly won’t be able to deny it then.” 

“Ha! Not a bad plan, but I wouldn’t put it past him to still play dumb.”

The two share a quick smile at the thought before turning back to the game. They watch in companionable silence for a moment as Inunaki picks up the serve. Keiji can almost feel the brush of Miya’s thigh against his own. The sudden urge to bridge the small gap between them is strong, though he’s not sure why. Atsumu sets to Bokuto, but the Green Rockets’ middle blocker, supported by Kiryū, shuts him out completely. Keiji purses his lips on Bokuto’s behalf, ridiculous urges thankfully forgotten in favor of analyzing Bokuto’s mood from the stands. It’s a habit he still hasn’t quite been able to shake. 

He startles a little bit when Miya speaks again, “Bo-kun’s getting pretty good about that isn’t he?” At Keiji’s questioning look, he continues, “I mean, in high school he was known for bein’ a bit inconsistent, right?”

 _Ah._ Keiji nods in understanding, “Yes, he’s been over that for quite some time now,” Keiji could hear the pride in his voice when talking about his senpai, but he figured it’s well deserved, “He’s been working hard to just be an ace.”

“Not sure I really get what you mean, but I’ll take your word for it.” The rotation shifts. Miya’s phone buzzes in his hand. “Ah, SOS text from Asuka-chan. Better get back before she manages to somehow burn down our stand.” He raises a hand in Akaashi’s direction as he stands, “Enjoy the match Akaashi-kun.”

“Yes, of course,” Keiji responds before he can leave, “and I apologize again for interrupting your day, Miya-san.”

“I told you, it’s not a problem! And please, calling me ‘Miya’ is just gonna get confusing. Just ‘Osamu’ is fine.”

He doesn’t give Keiji a chance to accept or refuse, he simply nods once more and begins the short walk back to his stall. Keiji’s eyes track his path all the way back. He’s not sure why he can’t seem to look away, but files the strange compulsion away for later consideration. Right now, he’d much rather be enjoying the game than trying to solve any conundrums. Putting the interaction aside, he turns back towards the game, absently rubbing his hands together to fight off their chill. 

When Keiji finds Bokuto in front of the locker room after the game, he is wrapped in a sweaty hug and bombarded with things that Bokuto wants to do while he is in town, most notably, his desire to visit Fukurodani to “reminisce.”

“I apologize, Bokuto-san, but if I don’t assist Udai-sensei today, we’ll never meet our deadline for this week.”

The pout on Bokuto’s face is familiar even though it’s been ages since Keiji last saw it in person.

He would like to spend more time with Bokuto, but when Udai self-destructs, it’s usually better to work things out quickly. Which is why he had made plans with his mangaka to meet at a coffee shop after the match. He made sure when making his plans with Udai, however, that they would be done in time for Keiji to join the Jackals and friends for dinner later that evening. Bokuto invited him the night before, and Keiji had been looking forward to it all day. Work in general has been busy lately, causing Keiji to cancel quite a few meetings with friends. He really needs this break, so if he absolutely has to help Udai today, he is determined to sort everything out fast. 

Bokuto’s pout fades a little when he explains, but doesn’t go away entirely, even as Keiji assures him once again that he will still be attending dinner. Keiji isn’t exactly happy about it either, but he’ll have to make it work.

A glance at his watch tells him he’s got about twenty minutes before he has to leave for his meeting. Cognizant of the deadline, he stands in the hallway with Bokuto and talks for as long as he can. They talk a little about Udai’s series, antics that Bokuto and Atsumu have gotten into recently, and the new barbeque restaurant near Keiji’s apartment that he thinks Bokuto will love. Bokuto has just mentioned how the Jackals are in talks to sign Sakusa Kiyoomi for the next season when something down the hall distracts him, and he interrupts himself with a happy gasp. 

“The Miyans!”

The sound of Atsumu and Osamu coming their way is noticeable well before the twins round the corner. There is clearly some sort of argument happening between the two of them. Osamu’s arms are full, attempting to balance three large trays of onigiri at once. The attempt is largely successful, as far as Keiji can tell, the only thing hindering his balance being the one leg he has raised to kick at Atsumu’s side. From down the hall, Keiji catches just a bit of Osamu’s raised voice.

“I swear to God, Tsumu, I made these for your team, you’re gonna help me fucking carry ‘em-”

“Ah! Bo-kun, Keiji-kun!” Atsumu fings his arms wide as he notices the two of them standing near the door to the locker room and nearly knocks right into the onigiri tray closest to him. He skips forward quickly to meet them while his brother is still distracted with trying to keep the rice balls from finding a new home on the floor and slings an arm across Keiji’s shoulders. 

“I didn’t know you were coming to the game, Keiji-kun! Are ya staying? There’s plenty of onigiri, as long as Samu doesn’t spill any.”

“Oh, NOW you’re concerned about me spilling them,” Keiji hears grumbled from down the hall. The small “jackass” that gets tacked to the end has him fighting a smile.

“I appreciate the offer, but, unfortunately, I can’t stay. I have a meeting to get to,” he checks his watch again and frowns, “and I’m running a little late as it is.”

“Seems to be quite a theme with you, Akaashi-kun,” Osamu says, finally catching up to stand with the group, “you seemed like you were in a rush earlier too.”

The tone is teasing, and the smile on Osamu’s face is soft, but Akaashi still finds himself blushing a little bit at the embarrassment of being seen so frantic twice in the same day. “I can assure you, Osamu-san, that this is quite out of the ordinary for me.” 

Bokuto is looking between the two of them with interest. He seems ready to ask what happened earlier but doesn’t get the chance, Atsumu already having taken the reins of the conversation again.

“But you’ll be coming to dinner later, right? We’re celebratin’!”

Keiji hurriedly makes his assurances that he’ll be there, one eye to the clock above the locker room door, and extracts himself from Atsumu’s overly-friendly grip. He turns on his heel and heads towards the main stadium entrance. An indignant squawk fills the hall just as he’s turning the corner, followed by Bokuto’s booming laughter, and he figures Osamu must have gotten Atsumu with another swift kick.

For the second time that day, Keiji runs the distance between the stadium and the station. He tries to task focus the steps as he did earlier, but is largely unsuccessful this time. While he does make it to his meeting with Udai, only a few minutes later than he’d hoped, the whole way to the designated coffee shop meetup, all Keiji could picture was Miya Osamu’s soft, teasing smile.

The coffee shop is just clearing out after a rush of customers when Keiji and Udai finish brainstorming _Zombish’s_ next episode. Udai leaves the shop with a to-go cup of what Keiji sincerely hopes is decaf and promises to have the roughs done by their deadline. Without the pressure of helping his mangaka and with the roaring crowd in the shop settled to a murmur, the atmosphere has become incredibly peaceful. There is a clock on the wall surrounded by fashionable fake vines that reads 5:32PM. 

That gives Keiji almost an hour before he’s meant to be at the restaurant. Plenty of time. He’s actually quite pleased with his time management skills as he allows himself the extra few moments to finish his coffee, leisurely watching people walk by the window. It’s like there is a bubble around him, calming him and protecting him from the chaos of the rest of his day. Keiji desperately hopes the moment will last, but the feeling that it’s going to pop spectacularly seems to be looming right outside the edges of his momentary paradise. Still, he thinks he’ll make the most of it while he can, and takes another sip of his drink.

When the coffee is gone, he throws his cup away and heads out the door, reaching to find the slip of paper in his wallet that holds the address of the restaurant. After a cursory glance in the pocket where he stores small documents he might need, Keiji frowns. It’s not there. Well, maybe he left it in another pocket. He scours every nook and cranny in his wallet then moves on to the pockets of his backpack when the address is still nowhere to be seen. 

There aren’t an excessive number of people outside the coffee shop, but there’s enough that Keiji is starting to feel distinctly in the way as he continues to dig fruitlessly. He steps off to the side and drops his bag onto a bench, starting to pull items out and set them in stacks next to his bag. It’s still nowhere. He pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses and just thinks for a second.

Bokuto had called him the night before to give him the address. Keiji remembers repeating the street name and number back to Bokuto while on the phone to make sure he had it down right. He also distinctly remembers writing it on paper from his favorite notepad with the surprisingly legible yellow ink from the EJP Raijin pen Washio had gifted him ages ago. But what had he done with it next?

He had selected an outfit, and then set out breakfast for this morning. And he put the note...next to the melon bread, thinking he’d grab both in the morning. Which he had thoroughly not done. 

Keiji sucks in a deep breath and holds it for a long moment. Why hadn’t he just written the number down in his phone? He doesn’t have an answer for himself. He’s just going to have to wing it. He puts his things back in his backpack as quickly as possible, checks his watch. He still has plenty of time to get to the restaurant, about forty minutes or so, but he doesn’t have nearly enough time to go back home for the address. His phone is in his hand before he realizes it, already calling Bokuto. 

Straight to voicemail. Which means he likely hasn’t turned his phone back on after the game yet. Keiji knows from past experience that it could be a while before he gets around to it. Especially considering the Jackals won. He’ll be too busy celebrating to even think of his phone. That’s fine. Keiji sends him a quick text asking for the address again on the off chance that he does turn on his phone and then starts the hunt on his own. 

He remembers the name of the restaurant, but it’s pretty generic. One quick search pops up at least thirty establishments of the same name. He weeds through them as much as he can and eventually settles on one whose street name sounds familiar. It’s not too far from where he is, so Keiji figures if he’s wrong it won’t put him out too much. 

The directions on his phone lead him down several smaller streets before telling him the destination is just across the road. He prays desperately that when he looks up, he’ll be staring at the yakiniku restaurant that Bokuto described to him. 

Keiji stares down the well-worn barber shop pole that he finds himself standing in front of for longer than he’d like to admit. He’s not at all sure why a search result would list this place as a trendy new restaurant when it is clearly nothing of the sort. But...the map does still say that this is right, maybe…

No. Absolutely not. Keiji can _see_ the barber sweeping up hair from their last customer through the windows. 

He turns away, worried that if he doesn’t he’ll go inside just to be completely sure that it’s not the restaurant he was looking for. That’s not an amount of embarrassment he’s prepared to face right now. There are no new messages from Bokuto, so he picks another promising option from his original search and starts walking. 

Somehow, he gets entirely turned around. He’s still following the directions, but with how quickly he’s walking and glancing at the street names he’s almost certain he turned down the wrong street more times than he found the right one. The time keeps ticking closer to 6:30 and Keiji still has no idea where he’s going. How do you get lost in a city you’ve lived in your entire life? He knows that Tokyo is it’s own living, breathing beast. Shops and buildings are built and shut down as often as one person can blink. There’s no way anyone can even pretend to keep up with it all. The city is a monster much bigger than any one person. Though, Keiji figures, knowing all that doesn’t make him any less lost. 

He pauses a moment to calm his agitation. He glances up and his fingers freeze where they were tapping on the edge of his phone. How had he ended up back in front of the stadium again without even noticing? It’s not like he’d gotten back on the train, which means he was definitely walking around getting nowhere for much longer than he realized. 

The thought does not help.

There’s a pulse in his temple that will not stop beating. He types out another message to Bokuto in time with its rhythm. Still no response. Keiji is ready to start ripping his hair out, but settles on biting his thumbnail as he tries desperately to think. Wandering more is just going to waste time, but he doesn’t have any of the other team members’ numbers to ask them where to go. Even if he did, he’s not sure if any of them would answer a random number like that. Not to mention the fact that the only one of them Keiji has talked to at all enough to consider contacting without seeming rude is Atsumu. Another check of his phone proves that his ringer is working fine, there’s just no new messages. His brain is stuck on one option, can’t seem to move past it despite the fact that it isn’t...ideal. If he hunts down Miya Atsumu’s Instagram account and sends him a message there, maybe, just maybe, he’ll see it before Bokuto turns on his phone. Keiji has heard from Bokuto that Atsumu tends to spend more time on his Twitter than his Instagram (though the fact that Keiji remembers _that_ and not the address to this restaurant is beyond him) but Keiji does not have a Twitter and trying to make one now is out of the question. He pulls his Instagram app open to the search bar. What’s the best way to ask? Will he even see it with all the other messages he surely gets? Is there a better way to-

“Akaashi-kun?”

Keiji’s eyes slide up from his phone at the calling of his name and he is surprised to once again find himself facing Miya Osamu.

Keiji takes a beat to take him in, too flustered about his current situation to respond with anything other than general bewilderment “Osamu-san, you’re still at the stadium?”

“Ah, yeah. It takes longer than you’d think to clean up a food stall.” He tilts his head at Keiji, “I’m more surprised that you’re still here to be honest. Shouldn’t you be at the restaurant? We’re both gonna be late at this point.”

It’s only then that Keiji realizes that Osamu is also meeting the Jackals for dinner. That Osamu presumably is not a disaster who has no idea where he’s going. That Osamu definitely has the address and Keiji has just mysteriously, thankfully stumbled upon a beacon in the darkness. The shock of it all must shut down his brain once and for all because in the face of Osamu’s questioning expression all Keiji can think of is the ever changing monster of Tokyo and what he manages to say is

“Ah, finally out of the mouth of the beast.”

“What?”

“I’m lost.”

Osamu’s thick eyebrows shoot upwards. Keiji is sure he’s confused the man beyond reason, but he’s a bit too relieved to care at the moment.

“I can’t find the address to the restaurant and Bokuto-san isn’t answering his phone,” He explains simply, “Please tell me you know where you’re going.”

Keiji thinks the helpless look on his face might seem a tad pathetic, so he’s caught off guard when the laugh Osamu blankets him with is reassuring and not pitying. It’s incredibly good-natured coming from the man who has no qualms ruthlessly making fun of his own brother. 

“Yeah, I know where I’m going,” Osamu says, taking the last few steps down the stadium’s stairs to stand by Keiji. He tilts his head to the left and begins to lead Keiji in the opposite direction from where he was heading previously. Keiji tucks his phone in his back pocket and hurries to follow. 

“It really just doesn’t seem to be your day, today, does it?”

Keiji huffs. “I’ll admit, it hasn’t been my best day. My apologies that you seem to keep getting caught up in it.”

Osamu just smirks. “Don’t fret about it, Akaashi-kun, it happens to everyone!” Osamu catches Keiji’s unimpressed look and laughs, “You don’t have to look at me so skeptically! Hmm, okay so last week, Atsumu slipped at the fan event, like totally ate shit.”

Keiji can’t stop a chuckle at the image, “Yes, I heard about that from Bokuto-san. I do hope Atsumu-san was alright.”

“Oh yeah, not a scratch,” Osamu takes his hands out of his pockets to physically wave the idea away, “just being a total baby about the whole thing. But the point is, he was so caught up in feeling sorry for himself that he left the locker room without his bag. Didn’t even notice ‘til he was at his apartment door with no keys. He took the train all the way back to the locker room, but obviously didn’t have the keys for _that_ either. Called me after staring at the locked door like an idiot for about half an hour, praying that I had a spare for his apartment. Man was practically in tears.” He nudges Keiji gently with his elbow, “So, see? It happens to everyone.”

The nudge startled Keiji a little bit. He had been too busy watching Osamu’s hands out of the corner of his eye as he talked, the motion of his gestures smooth and kept close to his own body, to see the slight contact coming. With his attention brought back to Osamu’s expression, though, he thinks Osamu looks incredibly proud of himself.

“You said that like it was just meant to cheer me up, but why do I get the feeling that it was mostly so you’d have a reason to bad mouth your brother?”

Osamu looks surprised for a split second before his smirk turns a little sharper. He turns away from Keiji slightly, schooling his face into a more neutral, proud expression, “Hm? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have nothing but love and respect for _my_ brother.”

Keiji is surprised to find himself laughing. He’s been surprised at how often this man has made him laugh all day, actually. He turns his face away slightly and hides his smirk as well as possible behind his hand and laughs. He’s been carrying so much tension in his shoulders since he started frantically searching the city. When he straightens back up, he can feel it all start to leak back out of him until he’s matching the mellow energy of Osamu beside him.

“Well, regardless, Thank you for the consideration. I promise you I’m not this big of a mess all the time.”

As the two of them walk, they talk about benign things; their jobs, their hobbies, books they’ve read, shows they’ve seen. Osamu checks his phone occasionally to be sure they’re still on the right track. They haven’t been walking long when they find themselves on the busier side of the city, people rushing between buildings or walking in small groups. Keiji doesn’t even notice just how crowded it has gotten until he realizes that he can no longer hear Osamu over the noises around them. He accidentally knocks shoulders with a woman heading the opposite direction, and when he turns back forward after apologising, he has almost lost sight of Osamu. His black cap is still visible sticking out above the heads around him, but a good number of people have filled the gap Keiji allowed to form between them in his distraction. 

Losing Osamu in the crowd would be unacceptable. Keiji is hyper aware of the fact that he never actually got the address to the restaurant and has simply been following Osamu blindly. He also doesn’t have Osamu’s number, so if he loses sight of him now, he’ll be right back where he started. 

The idea is like sandpaper on Keiji’s nerves. He pushes his poor legs to go faster, their length a humongous boon in helping him to dodge around pedestrians and catch up. He notices Osamu glancing back to look for him with a slightly concerned look on his face that fades to relief when Keiji pulls up beside him again. The crowd only thickens as they continue on, and Keiji tries his best to stay close. He thinks he might actually be a little too close as the back of his hand knocks into Osamu’s. He apologizes quickly.

But it doesn’t stop. Each time he dodges a parent with a stroller, or a businessman swinging a briefcase, Keiji’s hand bumps the back of Osamu’s. The number of times he has apologized for the annoyance in the last two minutes alone is ridiculous.

“Don’t worry about it,” Osamu said the first time, and sent reassuring glances in Keiji’s direction every time since. 

Keiji’s knuckles bounce off of Osamu’s wrist this time as he’s forced to dodge a whole group of middle schoolers or risk getting caught up in their flow. He’s cut off before he can even start to apologize. 

“Here, why don’t we just…”

Osamu doesn’t waste time finishing the question or waiting for an answer. He just grabs Keiji’s hand in his own, slotting their fingers together like they were meant to be there. He does it with an ease that is belied by the pink tinge that Keiji can see dusting the back of his neck and the tips of his ears as he follows the slightly taller man down the sidewalk. 

Keiji can’t deny that it’s much harder to lose track of him this way. Osamu’s hand is wide and impossibly warm, as though the heat from every onigiri he’s ever shaped decided to make a permanent home out of the lines in his palms, all accumulating there and imbuing flames into his very bones. Keiji’s hand, frigid as it always is, feels like it’s sparking, igniting, burning against Osamu’s skin. He wants to hold on tighter. 

He’s so distracted that he almost trips over his own feet when he hears Osamu speak, “Oh my god, why are yer hands so cold?” He asks it good-naturedly, clearly not expecting an answer.

Keiji gives him one anyway, shrugging his shoulders and claiming that his hands are just always cold. He doesn’t expect this to prompt a responding hum from Osamu, and he certainly doesn’t expect it to lead to Osamu rubbing his thumb almost tenderly across Keiji’s own. Keiji feels like an ant under a magnifying glass, the concentrated attention igniting a blaze in his hand that travels through his body and flushes his cheeks pink. 

He tries not to feel deceitful about what he said, because though what he told Osamu is true, his hands _are_ always cold, in this moment they’ve never felt warmer.

Keiji’s phone rings. He knows who it is before even checking. Osamu has just led the two of them around a corner, finally allowing them to crest the worst of the crowd, and standing outside of a well lit restaurant sign a bit further down the block is Bokuto, phone to his ear, looking frantic.

There’s no longer a need to worry about losing one another in the crowd, so Keiji carefully extracts his hand from Osamu’s and picks his phone out of his back pocket. He can feel Osamu’s eyes on him as he answers the phone, but does his best to ignore them for the moment. Bokuto must hear the click of the phone being picked up, because Keiji hasn’t even said anything before a loud, drawn-out “Akaashi!” comes through the line, making both him and Osamu flinch at the volume.

The babbling on the other end of the line starts almost immediately, going from apologies about not seeing his texts to concern that Keiji is lost and even worry that maybe Keiji hurt himself while alone in the city. Keiji finds an opening as quickly as possible, “It’s fine, Bokuto-san, we’re here. Please turn around.”

He can hear Bokuto say “We?” just as loudly over the phone as he can in person, having finally reached him by the time the older man faces them.

The confusion clears to understanding as soon as Bokuto sees them. “Myaa-sam! You found Akaashi?”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Keiji answers for Osamu, turning Bokuto around and pushing him towards the building’s entrance with two hands on his broad shoulders, “he picked me up like a stray cat off the street. Now let’s go inside, we’re already late.” 

Keiji hears chuckling behind him and he can feel eyes on the back of his neck, but he refuses to look back as they enter the restaurant. 

When Keiji finally makes it home at the end of the day, he forgoes his evening routine and drops straight into his bed. Literally running around all day is definitely not something he’s used to anymore. He should go to the gym more often. He should really hunt down some salonpas for when he gets up in the morning. He knows right where they are. He bought a package the last time Bokuto came over after a game and housed them in a box under his bathroom sink, next to his bandaids. He should get up and put some on his nightstand in case he’s sore in the morning. Instead, he lays flat on his back and listens to the sounds of his empty apartment. 

His hands are cold again where they rest against his stomach. 

It’s the beginning of spring, and the space heater in Keiji’s bedroom has chased away the lingering winter chill, but where his hands rest against his stomach there is an iceberg sprouting goosebumps that slip glacially up his forearms. He remembers what it felt like to have that hand wrapped in one of Osamu’s. He remembers the all-encompassing heat that had filled him. He remembers and he yearns. He wants to know what it feels like to have both hands thawed by Miya Osamu. Would it feel the same if Keiji pressed his palms against Osamu’s cheeks? If he slipped them under Osamu’s shirt to melt against the panes of his back?

Keiji flips over onto his stomach, hands tucked beneath his chest, and pushes the thought away.

They had hardly spoken the rest of the night at dinner, attentions too caught up in their respective lively counterparts. Keiji spent the night making plans with Bokuto and talking about their other friends from Fukurodani, but he found that his eyes kept tracking back across the table to where Osamu sat next to his twin. With his hat removed, the dimming fairy lights hung around the restaurant lit Osamu’s hair like a halo, highlighting the fact that his hair is no longer the grey Keiji remembers from highschool. And his smile, even when it was wry or teasing, always looked so genuine. Keiji snuck so many glances at it through the night that it’s now branded behind his eyelids. 

He burrows his face deeper into his pillow and thinks. It’s not an entirely new feeling for Keiji, but it’s certainly one he hasn’t had in quite some time. He’s...interested. He lays out all of the things that he once knew about Osamu, and all of the things he’s learned and finds it all utterly lacking. He wants to know more. 

What that means for him exactly, at this moment he’s not sure. He notes the feeling in his mind and sets it aside for now. He won’t do anything rash, especially on a night like tonight when the day's events have forced him to come to terms with the fact that he might be feeling a bit lonely. Piled up work prevented him from seeing anyone he cares about in the last few months, Keiji knows. He’ll do something about that first, and then revisit the subject of Miya Osamu later.

The next few months go by about as typically as they usually do, only with a welcome increase in appearances from his friends. Keiji organizes lunches with Sarukui, he has drinks with Konoha and Komi, he video calls Bokuto once a week. He goes to as many games as possible, supporting both Bokuto and Washio, and that might be where the biggest change develops. Keiji gets onigiri from Onigiri Miya at every game he can. It’s there that he starts collecting points of data, notes of things he’s learned about Osamu.

He makes a habit of sticking around the stall once he’s purchased his food. He wraps his hands around whatever treat he purchased and allows his palms to bake pleasantly under the warmth of the fresh rice, chill receding, and they talk. Not a lot, and never for long - Osamu still has a business to run - but long enough that Keiji is able to build up a picture of this man. A picture made up of the way his fingers tap in measured rhythms near the till when he’s counting out change, the way he bends at the knees when taking the orders of children so that he doesn’t loom over them, how he’s quick to laugh but quicker to tease, how his snark never fails to make Keiji laugh as well. 

Keiji takes all of it home and jots it down in his mind. The little things accumulate and build until they snowball and Keiji is staring up at a conclusion that he is ultimately not surprised at all to find. 

He likes Miya Osamu. 

“Bokuto-san, is there a nice restaurant you would recommend in Osaka?”

It’s their weekly video call, and Bokuto has barely picked up when Keiji starts talking. Based on previous experience, Keiji knows that if he doesn’t present his own inquiries first, they’ll be lost in the windfall of Bokuto’s description of his week and Keiji will forget he had anything to ask at all until they are hours through with their conversation. 

“Oya?” Bokuto’s face suddenly pops up much closer to the camera than before, blowing up his golden eyes on Keiji’s laptop screen. “Is Akaashi planning on taking someone out while he’s in town next week?” 

“Hm, yes, well I haven’t asked him yet, but hopefully.”

Bokuto coos loudly at the admission and Keiji’s view of his friend starts shaking wildly. Bokuto must have started bouncing his legs; he tends to do that when he’s excited. “‘Kaaaashii! Who is it?”

When Keiji had debated whether or not to ask for Bokuto’s help in this matter, he had to weigh carefully the pros of having his support and the cons of telling his helpful-to-a-fault best friend that he wants to ask out his teammate’s twin. The thought that Atsumu might find out nearly stuck Keiji’s tongue to the roof of his mouth. Ultimately, however, the earnest look in Bokuto’s eyes demanded the truth.

“I am hoping that I’ll be able to take Osamu-san out after the game on Friday.” Keiji says simply, “I don’t think it will interfere with any of the other plans we have made for the weekend.”

“Myaa-sam? I knew it!” Bokuto says, cheering and clearly mentally patting himself on the back, “You always get so excited to eat his onigiri, I was beginning to wonder if you only come to my games to get some.”

The thought, though light-hearted and clearly not serious, is startling to Keiji. Surely he hasn’t been talking about Osamu that much, has he?

“Oh! That’s perfect!” Bokuto continues on, as though the implication that Keiji is so transparent hasn’t just sent his brain running a mile a minute. “I can ask Tsum-Tsum what kinds of food Myaa-sam likes so you know where to take him!”

Keiji can’t help but to frown slightly at that, as well. He doesn’t think that asking Atsumu is necessarily a bad idea, but that always leads to the possibility of word getting around to Osamu. Keiji doesn’t think he could survive the humiliation if Osamu learned about his upcoming confession and turned him down before the question has even technically been asked. Receiving a rejection through the grapevine would be devestating on a whole different level. Despite how much more terrifying asking Osamu in person seems, Keiji feels like letting this, his feelings, out to any more of the world before he’s admitted them to the one person he truly wants to hear them just feels too vulnerable. 

But Bokuto is already pulling out his phone. 

“Please,” Keiji says, “you don’t need to put Atsumu-san out like that, I can find a place on my own.”

Keiji didn’t think his voice had sounded much sharper than usual, but when Bokuto pauses in his typing and looks up at Keiji again, his eyes are considering and then understanding. “You think that if Atsumu knows he might tell Osamu? I got it. I won’t tell Atsumu a thing! But if we don’t ask, then we have to make sure to make it really good! There’s this one restaurant-”

They spend the rest of the night considering options of things to eat and how to ask. Keiji figures that maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised to be read so easily by Bokuto. He is his best friend, after all. 

This is not a good idea. He can’t just spring a date on Osamu out of nowhere. What if he has other plans? Maybe today’s not the right day. 

Keiji is spiraling and he knows it. He thinks about the “Good luck! Be bold!” text he received from Bokuto over an hour ago with a million and one positive emojis and tries to let it fill him with some of Bokuto’s confidence. He reminds himself that he made up his mind to do this ages ago. And if it works out, he thinks it will be more than worth it. So Keiji takes two, three deep breaths to calm his heart then lays out the plan in his head one more time in an attempt to ground himself. It’s really not so much of a plan as it is a single step, but he takes the time to visualize it nonetheless. 

_It’s going to be fine_ . _Even if he turns you down._

Keiji knew it was a bit self-destructive, but he planned for those scenarios the most. He likes to be prepared for the worst, which is why he knows exactly how to respond if Osamu feels uncomfortable after the suggestion of a date, if he gets mad, if he becomes pitying. Keiji is ready for it all, and he has a pint of his favorite ice cream chilling in Bokuto’s freezer for after the game as well, just in case. He just really hopes it doesn’t come to any of that. 

His eyes seek out the time on his phone and he almost starts spiraling again. Though he had arrived with plenty of time, he wasted much of it standing outside the stadium in Osaka, mentally preparing. He might actually miss the first serve again. Shit.

There is nothing remotely attractive about the half-jog Keiji employs on his way to the Onigiri Miya stand, but needs must. The line is surprisingly long for this close to the whistle. Keiji has no choice but to slot himself at the back and wait ever-longer before reaching Osamu. He places one hand over his quickly beating heart, trying uselessly to get it to calm. He’s not sure if it’s the temperature of his fingers, the anxiety of the situation, or a mix of both, but small tremors shake through his hands as he waits. He sticks them in his pockets to hide them from Osamu, who he can see gathering orders at the head of the line.

Osamu looks like he always does at work. His dark shirt clings to his lower back with sweat. His apron is tied low on his hips, protecting his light-wash jeans from stray flecks of rice or filling. When the steam from the rice cooker brushes across his face, he wipes his forehead with the back of his arm before settling his black cap back over black locks. The fact that Keiji can’t seem to look away is both a blessing and a curse, because as much as seeing Osamu reminds him why he’s here, his brain keeps picking up on miniscule things and spinning them out of proportion.

_Are Osamu’s shoulders a little bit stiff today? Maybe he is in a bad mood and I shouldn’t bother him. He’s tapping his foot a lot more than usual, too. He probably has plans after the game that he’s excited for. It would explain the restlessness. He won’t want to cancel his plans for me, I should ask another time._

Another customer is served and Keiji steps forward in line. The motion catches Osamu’s attention and his eyes scan the line. As soon as Osamu makes eye contact with him, Keiji watches as his shoulders clearly loosen and a bright smile lights up his face. Keiji isn’t close enough in line to hear him speak yet over the noise, but his eyes trace the motion of Osamu’s mouth as it forms the shape of “Akaashi-kun” as gently as his hands form onigiri and Oh. Yes. This will be fine. 

When Keiji finally steps up to the front of the line, Osamu begins packaging an order without even asking for an order. He generously gifts Keiji with a flash of a smile, that same hint of a crooked tooth, and Keiji’s heart beats painfully. “Thought you said you’re not usually late. This has to be at least the third or fourth time. I’m disappointed in you.”

Keiji huffs delicately at the disapproving tut Osamu throws his direction.

“Excuse you, I think you’ll find that I’ve never been late once in my entire life.”

His mild delivery earns him a laugh, a full-belly laugh. Osamu’s head tilts back and his eyes scrunch with it. Keiji is struck by the elegant line of his throat, the rich boom of his laughter as it vibrates pure joy through the entire room, the way his smile fills his face. It’s overwhelming and Keiji wants to dive deeper. To drown in it.

“Sure, sure, whatever you say,” Osamu drops one more onigiri in the bag he was preparing as he settles, “Here, I saved ya some of today’s special ‘cause I thought you’d like it.” 

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that for me, it’s my fault for being late.” It sounds like a protest, but Keiji doesn’t hesitate in grabbing the bag.

Osamu doesn’t seem surprised by the action. A simple wave of his hand calls Asuka-chan forward to man the till while Osamu steps aside to chat with Keiji. It’s not an unusual part of their pre-game purchasing ritual these days, but it does a lot to make Keiji feel more at-ease about his one-part plan. 

The steam from the onigiri tickles Keiji’s fingers as he clutches the bag’s handle tighter. He pictures it wrapping around his knuckles and saturating him with confidence. His mouth opens and the entire stadium grows silent.

“Ah.” Osamu tilts his head to see the court behind Keiji. One glance shows Atsumu running up the court in perfect form for a jump serve. “Bet he misses it,” Osamu deadpans as Atsumu’s palm strikes the ball with meteoric force, filling the still silent gymnasium with the sound of the impact. 

The force was heart-pounding, but it had no effect on Keiji; the near-miss confession from moments before already kick-started his heart as fast as it could go. He’ll get it right the next time, he just needs another opening, he just needs to get the conversation back before Osamu goes back to work, he just needs-

“Haaa, what did I tell ya,” Osamu’s gaze shifts back to Keiji, “I can always tell when he’s gonna flub ‘em.” It’s conspiratorial and overly fond. The small grin on his face is the same teasing smirk that haunted Keiji for weeks after that first match. It flashes Keiji back to that first moment when he thought there might be something about Miya Osamu…

It shatters the tension cocooned around Keiji. He can’t hold back his snort of laughter this time, and doesn’t even try to stop the soft giggles he falls into, though he does hide them slightly behind his knuckles, turning his head to the side. He stays there for a minute, letting the mirth crash through him in waves. He had been holding himself so tightly, as though waiting to receive a serve from Ushijima or Sakusa that he was thoroughly unprepared for after years away from volleyball, and he hadn’t even realized it. Keiji shucks it all off, the worry, the expectations, the weight, and turns, smiling now, back toward his friend only to find Osamu staring at him in mild shock.

“You _do_ have dimples.” 

Keiji blinks up at Osamu, eyebrows pulling together. _What?_

“Ah, I just mean, I thought you might,” he rubs his hand across the back of his neck, sheepish, eyes darting here and away quicker than Keiji has ever seen from him, “you just always hide your smile, so I couldn’t be sure before...sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortabl-”

“Go to dinner with me.”

Osamu’s head whips back towards Keiji, a flustered blush starting high in his cheekbones, “D-Dinner?”

“Yes. No.” Keiji twists his fingers. He can feel a matching blush starting on his own cheeks and ignores it. This is what he came here for today; he’s going to follow through. “A date. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

Osamu just stares for a moment, looking shocked. Keiji’s fidgeting fingers get worse as he watches Osamu shake his head a little. 

_Oh no, maybe he misread all of this, maybe-_

A small smile, as genuine as they always are, pulls up the corners of Osamu’s lips. He makes as though to move from the booth, “Absolutely.” It’s just a breath of a word but Keiji feels it sing in his bones, “Right now?”

Keiji will never get tired of laughing with this man. He makes sure his smile is wide and facing Osamu head on, dimples in full view as he responds, “I was thinking after the game. You do still have work to do, after all.” Keiji tilts his head slightly towards Osamu’s employee who seems to just barely be managing to handle the line of customers that is still at least fifteen people deep. 

Osamu leans his elbows onto the counter and gives his employee a considering look. “Seems like she’s got it handled. She’s so focused, she probably wouldn’t even notice if we left.” Osamu hits him with a look, mischievous and hopeful. Keiji is helpless to do anything other than cave when its full force is directed at him. 

But he’s not ready to give in just yet. 

_Be bold!_

_Okay._

Keiji’s elbows press hard into the counter when he leans towards Osamu, matching his conspiratorial look ounce for ounce. He doesn’t stop until he’s all the way in Osamu’s space, lips brushing against the swell of his ear. “And what would you do for me to make up for missing the match?” 

A shiver shakes through Osamu, and Keiji is close enough to feel it. But he’d rather see it. He leans back slightly, stays close enough that they might brush noses if they breathe too hard, and takes in the sight of a perfectly ruffled Osamu. He looks like he’s fighting the urge to run, eyes flicking rapidly between Keiji’s eyes, much closer than they’ve ever been before, and his small, teasing smirk. Keiji makes no further moves, just raises his eyebrows in challenge.

There’s no response other than continued gaping. 

“That’s what I thought,” Keiji laughs and it feels like ringing a bell. It feels like winning. It feels warm.

He considers tossing Osamu a wink as he turns around, but settles on a soft pat against his wider hand. It sparks a tingle through Keiji’s palm, but he’s proud of how unaffected his voice is when he turns his back fully.

“I’ll see you after the game, Osamu-kun.” 

* * *

His friends’ gloves and onigiri and Miya Osamu’s work worn hands. 

Akaashi Keiji’s hands are always cold, but he knows ways to warm them up.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure what compelled me to place this fic in such a weird place in the timeline (post-timeskip but pre-Hinata in MSBY). I think I originally wanted that second game to be Hinata's debut match? But then that scene really shouldn't be set in Osaka...Anyway, all this to say I know nothing about the V.League or its timeline, so please pardon my mess.
> 
> Also, y'all have no idea how often I had to thesaurus the words "cold," "warm," and "hands" to write this, and there's still way too many of them that actually ended up in the fic #whoops
> 
> Thank you for reading my first Haikyuu!! fic and the first fic I've written in *checks notes* almost three years! I hope you enjoyed it :)


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